we ride our bikes
around the circle in the cemetery, weaving
I wave up to you on the cross
am I to come upon you suddenly, like this, forever?
happy, relieved that you are here
and I can see you

you are like the ticket-half
I find inside the pocket of my old leaf-raking coat
there all the time, all the while forgotten.
I so often seem to leave you in churches
and other islands, and on my beads
where I can see you, I can feel you

I take the ticket-half and put it on the table, saying:
"this is god, and he's here
through my comings and my goings
but I walk past the ticket-half
I walk past the ticket-half
I walk past the ticket-half
just as I've walked past the cross on our wall,"

our self-importance grows so dazzling, we don't see you
but gentle jesus, aren't you always
aren't you every hour, here?